


Points of Contact

by manic_intent



Series: Points of Contact [1]
Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: Alpha!Santiago, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Full spoilers, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega!Francisco, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, That Omegaverse AU that I don't have any excuse for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-19 04:05:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18130721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: “Hmmmyes,” Catfish said. He whined, a low and needy sound that was most certainly faked, because Catfish was grinning like a fucking psychopath and because he was the least needy omega Pope had ever met. Also, he probably really was a fucking psychopath. Clinically. All the best air jockeys were.





	Points of Contact

**Author's Note:**

> I know it’d probably make more sense to use the first names for this fic, but I like their callsigns/nicknames.
> 
> For those who haven’t watched Triple Frontier, here is the trailer: 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fo3yRLLrXQA
> 
> S
> 
> P
> 
> O
> 
> I
> 
> L
> 
> E
> 
> R
> 
> S
> 
> Basically, it’s a movie that’s unironically about American imperialism and greed. Pope (Oscar Isaac) is consulting for some Blackwater-esque company in Colombia and decides to murder a cartel lord and take his money, because that’s always such a great retirement plan if some cartel guy is actually somehow running an entire country. He brings in his old Special Forces team to help, which includes Catfish (Pedro Pascal). Things go wrong and Captain Redfly (Ben Affleck) dies, and they only make it out of the country with $5mil, which they all decide to give to Redfly’s fam. IDK if it’s worth watching tbh, but Pedro and Oscar are very handsome in it AND survive the film, which surprised me.

“This is the last time,” Catfish said, stifling gasps and laughter against Pope’s shoulder. His teeth dragged against Pope’s throat, close enough to the jugular that he had to have done it on purpose, had to know that Pope would twitch and snarl and jerk his hips, shoving his cock deeper. 

Alpha instincts were a bitch. Especially when enhanced with special ops training. 

“You’ve said that before,” Pope shot back. He tried to breathe slowly, keep a clear head. Difficult when squeezed behind boxes in a dusty stairwell, with no interfering scents around but theirs. If the Captain caught them again— 

“Hmmm _yes_ ,” Catfish said. He whined, a low and needy sound that was most certainly faked, because Catfish was grinning like a fucking psychopath and because he was the least needy omega Pope had ever met. Also, he probably really was a fucking psychopath. Clinically. All the best air jockeys were. Catfish didn’t care about getting caught, or getting disciplined or having to clean out latrines for a week or having a reprimand put on his record. He hooked the heel of his leg against Pope’s ass and hauled him deeper. 

The whine and the tug worked. It always did, when it came from Catfish. Catfish was the exception to Pope’s self-control, the so-called exemplary quality that had gotten Pope his nickname in the first place. He was the only alpha in Company B because he wasn’t much like an alpha. Up until this too-tall omega had slunk into his team and his life and fucked that up. Pope nudged his mouth under Catfish’s collar and sank his teeth into the sweaty skin, hitching Catfish’s leg up to spread him wider. Catfish laughed far too loudly as he was shoved higher against the wall, his laughter shaking into moans as Pope drove into him. Deeper, harder, fucking Catfish hard enough that he had to be bruising his shoulders against concrete. 

Catfish clawed his hands down Pope’s back, over the soaked gray shirt, bared his teeth. “Scream and I won’t fuck you for a week,” Pope promised him. Catfish laughed, each gasp of mirth punched out of him as Pope drilled deep. Mad fucker. 

“We both know you can’t resist me,” Catfish said. He clenched down and Pope hissed, choking down his cry just in time. “How about I make _you_ scream?” He slipped a hand down Pope’s spine, sliding it over his bare ass. 

Pope growled and pinned the questing hand beside Catfish’s head. He kissed Catfish to shut him up—not that it ever worked for long. Adrenaline and haywire instincts and the incredible slick heat of Catfish’s body worked its usual magic. Pope was dizzy from the sweat-stink of their mingling scents, the coppery taste of Catfish’s blood on his tongue, the way Catfish was sucking the fingers Pope had hastily shoved into his big mouth. Catfish bit down hard—the asshole—and smirked as Pope snarled and screwed in as deep as he could, shocked and enraged into coming, somehow. His knot started to swell and Pope hissed as he tried to pull out, only for Catfish to hook out one of his legs. They went crashing to the floor, Pope bouncing his head hard enough against one of the crates to see stars. 

“Jódete, pendejo,” Pope gasped, gingerly feeling over his head. Catfish laughed, sprawled comfortably over Pope’s lap, sitting on his knot and looking so goddamned smug. “Now we’re stuck.” 

“That’s the point.” Catfish grabbed Pope’s free hand, pulling it down to his dick. “Help me get off. Then I wanna smoke.”

“Get yourself off, cabrón,” Pope said. He jerked his hand away with a scowl, then yelped as Catfish raked his nails up and under Pope’s shirt, over his belly. “Hey!” 

“I’m gonna draw blood next. You can explain that to the Captain,” Catfish said. He pulled meaningfully against the knot and Pope yelped, scrabbling for Catfish’s hips. 

“Okay, Frankie. Jesus. Okay.” Pope stroked his fingers between them both, getting them slick, then jacked Catfish off roughly in urgent pulls, almost hard enough for pain. It was what the bastard liked. Catfish’s handsome face twisted as he tried to rock into Pope’s grip, his hands braced on the concrete as he clenched rhythmically over the knot. Christ, it was hot. 

At least Catfish was always quiet when he came. He sucked in a thin breath and let it out in a deep and satisfied sigh, more slick wetting the root of Pope’s cock even as Catfish spilled over his fingers. Some days it was enough to get Pope going again. Catfish dug his nails into Pope’s belly, hard enough that Pope yelped and swatted his hands away.

“Fuck you. What was that for?” 

“Because it’s the last time.” Catfish leaned over to tug his discarded pants over, fishing in the pockets for cigarettes and a lighter. He offered Pope one and Pope shook his head. Catfish lit up, sitting back and taking a deep drag. 

Usually, Pope would snort and roll his eyes and wait in pointed silence for his knot to go down. They’d pull up their pants and try to dispose of the used condoms, attempt to sneak to the nearest bathroom to get cleaned up without getting noticed. Today he asked, “Why do you keep saying that?” 

Catfish eyed him with surprise. “Because it could be true. Tomorrow’s op isn’t exactly a walk in fucking Disneyland.” 

“You’d be safe in your bird.” 

“Safe until she gets clipped by live fire and I catch a dirt nap.” Catfish blew out a cloud of smoke. 

“If you’ve got a question about the op, you should bring it up with the Captain.”

Catfish let out a snort. “Oh, I always got questions. About all the fugazi that rolls out of the five-sided puzzle palace, the fact that we’ve had one deployment after another without a break, even the fact that the SOF is deployed in most of the fucking world. For what? Fuck.” 

“What can I say? We snake eaters are popular,” Pope said. He studied Catfish warily. It didn’t sound like Catfish had lost his nerve. The man was loose and relaxed. Smelled relaxed, too. “We’re doing necessary work, soldier.” 

“You really believe that, huh?” Catfish said, amused. 

“Sure I do. Like what we’re doing here. Fighting the war on drugs.” 

Another snort. “Come on. You’re smarter than that. War on drugs. War on whatever in Africa, on whatever in the Middle East, all over the world. Bullshit wars with no reason and no end. And the collateral damage? The civvies who get in the way and get shot? It’s gonna catch up with us someday.” 

“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” Pope said, after a long pause. 

“Yeah, well. I’m not just a pretty face,” Catfish said. He offered Pope a smoke again. This time, Pope took it. He lit up and waited for the narcotic hit, the air growing gritty around them. “You gonna sign up for another tour? After this?” 

“Don’t think so,” Pope said. He nodded up at the top of the stairs. “Captain isn’t.” 

“Does that matter? Surely it isn’t some sort of pack leader bullshit, is it? He’s a beta.” 

“It isn’t,” Pope said, though that was a bit of a lie and Catfish knew it. “Also, most people are betas.” 

“You’re just gonna go home? Get a normal job?” 

“I guess,” Pope lied. He’d had some thoughts about that. “You?” 

“Normal, that’s me,” Catfish said, and winked. The end of his cigarette glowed in the shadow of the crates. 

“Yeah, right. You’re the best pilot I know.”

“A lot of omegas make great pilots,” Catfish said. Something about biology. Most of the great air jockeys Pope had ever known were omegas, but he wasn’t kidding about Catfish being the best.

“And a hero.” 

“We both know that all the chest candy we can earn in the world don’t mean shit back home.” Catfish looked away, smoking for a while. “And we aren’t heroes. You know us better than that.”

#

“This is the last time,” Catfish said on the morning after, sprawled and sated over the secondhand couch in Pope’s rented apartment, his long legs slung over the armrest.

“Last time I’m making you breakfast, you lazy fucker,” Pope said in Spanish as he rummaged through his fridge for anything remotely edible. He still had a few eggs and some bacon that still smelled all right. 

“You love it.” Catfish yawned. “You’re biologically supposed to. Isn’t it an alpha thing? Taking care of omegas?”

“Like you need taking care of.” Pope heated up a pan on the stove. “You’re the one who signed up for a further tour.” 

Catfish shuddered. “Yeah, don’t know what got into me there. Glad that’s over.” 

“When did you fly back in?” 

“Yesterday.” 

Pope glanced up from cracking the eggs. “What? You didn’t go home? Where’s your kit?” 

“With my sister. Then I called you, you picked up, and I caught an Uber here.” Catfish stretched luxuriously. The man looked way too good in a rumpled red shirt and old jeans. “I’m surprised you’re still here.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“What’re you doing again, security? Consulting?” 

“Both,” Pope said. The small apartment began to smell of scrambled eggs and bacon. “Pretty good gig if you want in. We need pilots.” 

“Isn’t what you do the same shit we used to, just without Uncle Sam?” 

“With Uncle Sam most of the time still, just with better pay.” Not that much better, admittedly. Catfish smiled a crooked knowing smile at him and Pope looked away, making a show of getting plates. “I’m flying to Colombia for a while.” 

“The motherland, eh?” 

“Consulting for local law enforcement,” Pope said. He portioned eggs and bacon onto plates and carried them over to the tiny dining table. “Sure you don’t want in?” 

“I’m thinking of flying commercial. Long flights with nothing to do but turn on the autopilot, sounds like heaven.” 

Pope sniffed. “Sure there’s more to flying commercial than that, or you’ll get bored.” 

“Maybe.” Catfish slouched over to the table and tugged over a plate. He ate a piece, chewed, and made a face. “You still can’t cook for shit.”

“Fuck off.” Pope tossed a bottle of ketchup at Catfish’s head. He caught it and squeezed it liberally over his plate. 

“Never thought about getting a normal job?” Catfish asked as he shoveled the now unrecognisable mess into his maw. 

“Like what?” Pope had no idea what a ‘normal’ job was meant to be. He’d been an Army kid, growing up on various military bases around the world as his mother had been deployed here and there. His fathers had been a string of her boyfriends, most of them nice, most of them indifferent. He’d grown up with a pack of other kids on base, most of whom had enlisted once they’d been old enough. 

Now most of them were either dead or addicted to any number of drugs, equal casualties of their country’s indifference to the consequences of its endless wars and to the consequences of a laughably inadequate healthcare system. Pope had figured it all out. If trying to readjust to leaving the war was what fucked you over, then maybe he’d just keep fighting. It was all he knew how to do anyway. 

“You could be a cop. They like alphas in the police. Or. You could run for President. War hero, people like that.” 

“You don’t believe in heroes,” Pope said. 

“Only cadidiots believe in heroes.” Catfish always ate in a way that looked like magic. One moment food was there, the next it wasn’t. Special training from having grown up with multiple brothers, apparently. “When are you going to Colombia?” 

“In a couple of days. Why?” 

Catfish hummed, deep and low in his throat. “Finish eating, make me coffee, and let’s go back to bed.” 

Pope snorted. “The last time, huh?” 

“Yeah, and we should make it count.” Catfish winked. “Ever fucked an omega without a condom?” 

Pope sucked in a low breath, trying to tamp down on the heat that coiled in his stomach. “What the hell, Frankie.” 

“Call it a farewell present.” 

“You’re…” Pope trailed off, trying not to squirm, breakfast forgotten. Something about the chaos energy Catfish radiated always turned him on like nothing else.

“Clean, yes.” Catfish pressed the pink curl of his tongue against his fork. “But first, coffee.” 

“Fine.”

#

“It’ll be the last time,” Pope said, as they spilled out of the fighting ring after Benny’s win. The brothers had long gone home. Catfish eyed him soberly, leaning against a secondhand old Toyota with his arms folded against his chest. Something had changed, and Pope doubted it was the drug possession charge. Catfish was quieter now. More serious.

“Last time that you ask us for a favour, or?” 

“It’s not a favour, it’s an opportunity. It’s what we used to do. Drop in somewhere, take out a drug boss. Except this time we also split his millions,” Pope said. Catfish shot him an unimpressed stare. Pope glanced at the car, holding on to his temper. “Didn’t think you’d ever drive anything other than a plane or a bike. Aren’t you air jockeys all adrenaline junkies?” 

“People change,” Catfish said. His mouth quirked. 

“A baby would do that.” Pope still couldn’t believe that. _Catfish_ having a baby. Catfish, who used to like performing aerobatics with ill-suited aircraft at low altitudes, who’d once tried to loop a Little Bird on a dare. Catfish stared at Pope in silence. “What?” Pope asked. 

“About the kid.” Catfish hesitated, scratching at his jaw. “She’s a good kid. Serious, smart.” 

“You sure she’s yours?” Pope said, still trying to defuse the strange tension between them with humour. This got him a tightened jaw and an angry flash in Catfish’s eyes. Pope sighed. “Shit. Bad joke. Sorry. I’m a bit wound up. What’s her name?” 

“Sofia,” Catfish said.

“Ah, really? My mother was called Sofia.” 

Catfish gave him another strange look. “I know.” 

Pope gave up on trying to parse Catfish’s mood. “Look. I know it’s going to be hard, leaving a kid behind. But I do need you on this.” 

Catfish started to answer and his phone vibrated in his pockets. He fished it up, checked the screen, frowned, and held up a finger as he picked up. It was a FaceTime call. “You shouldn’t be awake, sweetheart,” Catfish said in Spanish. 

Pope stiffened. He wanted to walk away. He should, to give Catfish some privacy. Something nervous and a little angry rooted him on the spot instead, made him clench his fists. He blinked as a little girl giggled. “ _You_ shouldn’t be awake,” she said. 

“Yeah, well, different rules for adults. Go to sleep, all right? I’m going to be home soon. Where’s Isabella?” 

“Watching Netflix. She told me to go to sleep too and I said, you’re not my mom, and she said, don’t take that tone with me young lady. I told her that I was exercising my First Amendment rights, so she said, that’s it, go to your room, your father’s going to hear about this, so I thought I might as well call you first.” 

Catfish pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dios mio, Sofia, go to sleep. Now.” 

“Byeee,” Sofia said, completely unrepentant, and hung up. 

“… Not a baby,” Pope said, starting to chuckle. “Sounds like a real handful.” 

That got him another strange look, then Catfish nodded slowly. “She is.”

“How old is she?” 

“Old enough to know better.” Catfish put his phone away with a sigh. “Fine. I’ll do it. A week’s work, right?”

“No more than that.”

#

Catfish waited until the others were gone, turning the passport over in his hands. He looked strange clean-shaven. Nearly respectable, even. Pope waited for Catfish to say something, and when he didn’t, Pope said, “Nos vemos.”

There was nothing left to say. Few plans survived direct contact with the enemy intact, Pope knew that old adage well. He just hadn’t expected things to go as wrong as they had, what with Captain Redfly dead, the Miller brothers shot, and most of the millions they’d stolen from Lorea’s house thrown into a ravine, maybe never to be retrieved. Even the five million that they’d managed to retrieve and sign over to Redfly’s family felt inadequate.

They’d got what they deserved. 

“Santiago… look. I should tell you,” Catfish said. 

“Tell me what?” Pope asked. Catfish tucked the passport into his front shirt pocket and rubbed his palms over his jeans. Looking away at the crowd, Catfish exhaled and pulled a folded photograph from a pocket, handing it over. 

Pope opened the photograph. It was a creased Polaroid of a little girl, mugging for the camera. She was dark-haired and bright-eyed, dressed as Captain America with a plastic shield. “Sofia?” Pope asked. Catfish nodded. “Cute kid.” 

“Yeah.” Catfish looked both relieved and a little frustrated. He held out his hand for the photograph. 

Pope held on to it. “How old is she?” 

That got him a ghost of a smile. “‘Bout two and a half.” 

Two and a half. Plus nine months. Pope stared at Catfish as realisation struck him like a thunderbolt. “Is she…?” 

“Yours?” Catfish barked out a laugh. “No, hell no. Nobody has been there for her but me. She’s my kid.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

“Yeah, I do.” Catfish snatched the photograph back, folding it. “Just thought you should know.”

“Why didn’t you ever… you could have told me. Earlier.” 

“Would that have made a difference to either of us?” Catfish asked, though this time he looked amused rather than wary.

“Of course! Okay. I’m going to go back for the money.” 

“ _No_. What are you, suicidal?” Catfish grabbed Pope’s elbow. “That’s not why I told you. Look. Just. Go to Australia. Find that girl. Forget it.”

“You signing over your share of the money… you’d be going home with nothing and you’re fighting a coke charge, you’re…” Pope exhaled. “Let me help.” 

Catfish shot him a cool stare. “Would you have bothered to offer if I hadn’t shown you that photograph?” 

“Frankie.”

“Forget it, okay?” Catfish hugged him tightly. He pressed his mouth briefly to Pope’s throat, scenting him. The gesture relaxed Pope instinctively even though he didn’t want to be relaxed. “Cuidate.” 

Pope held on to Catfish’s arms as Catfish drew back, but let him go when Catfish tugged pointedly. He watched Catfish fade into the crowds, utterly disoriented for the first time in his life.

#

Pope was reading the news on his iPad when someone started pounding on his door. Jerking to his feet, he groped for the gun he kept under a cushion and walked over on silent feet. He leaned against the wall and opened it a crack without unlatching the security chain, and blinked.

“Seriously?” Catfish stared at the gun. “That how you greet your neighbors?” 

Pope hastily set it aside. Unlatching the chain, he opened the door. “What are you doing here?”

“You going to let me in or what?” Pope stepped aside. Catfish sauntered in, looking around with amusement as Pope closed the door behind him. “Well, things haven’t changed much,” Catfish said.

“I’m not in the country often enough for things to change.” 

“And you kept paying the rent?” 

“Had the money,” Pope said. Consulting had paid well eventually. 

“Yeah, I figured you did. After you shelled out all that money to get us to Colombia without even blinking an eye.” Catfish slouched into an armchair, putting up his feet on the coffee table and folding his arms. “Know anything about the money that keeps getting paid into my bank account every month?” 

“Maybe.” 

“You went back? For the cash?”

“No.” That was still tricky, especially by himself. Besides, Pope had watched that money twist him and his friends, change them into the worst possible versions of themselves. Made them forget their training, make rookie mistakes. It had gotten the man Pope had respected most in the world killed. He didn’t want to go back to all that. Not yet.

Catfish rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Told you to forget it.” 

“I don’t want to. And. I don’t expect anything in return. You don’t have to tell Isabella, even. I just want to help.” 

“Yeah, about that.” Catfish sank further into the armchair. “I lied about that. Having a girlfriend. Isabella is my sister.” 

An ugly twist deep inside Pope that he hadn’t even realised had been there eased. “Right.”

“You should’ve known that. You know the names of the people in my family. Who the hell dates someone with the same name as their sister?” 

“Given that well over half of the Latina women I know are called Maria, it’s a statistical probability,” Pope said. 

Catfish laughed, startled. He looked away. “Christ. She even sounds like you sometimes. Sofia.” 

Pope walked over slowly, as unthreateningly as he could. When Catfish didn’t budge, he closed in, trying to lean in for a kiss. He got dragged down instead, losing his balance with a yelp and landing hard against Catfish, elbowing him in the stomach. Catfish hissed, squirming until they were both squeezed over the armchair. Somehow it worked. Catfish kissed his forehead. He leaned back when Pope tried to brush a kiss on his mouth, studying Pope for a long moment before leaning in. They didn’t use to kiss. Not like this, anyway, not like lovers. They were never that, and yet no one had ever fit alongside Pope as well as Catfish, an anomaly that he’d never once questioned. 

“Fine. You can help. But this is the last time. That I give in to your shit.” Catfish pecked Pope on the nose.

“Heard that before,” Pope said, twisting around to straddle his lap as Catfish shook his head and laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay hopefully that's now out of my system haha.  
> \--  
> twitter: @manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent.tumblr.com  
> \--  
> Refs:  
> https://www.thenation.com/article/american-special-ops-forces-have-deployed-to-70-percent-of-the-worlds-countries-in-2017/
> 
> https://news.vice.com/en_ca/article/bjddq8/everything-we-know-about-u-s-special-ops-are-doing-in-33-african-nations 
> 
> https://www.military.com/join-armed-forces/military-terms-and-jargon.html
> 
> https://www.politifact.com/truth-o-meter/statements/2016/jul/10/cory-booker/how-war-drugs-affected-incarceration-rates/
> 
> https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/todays-war-on-drugs-is-more-than-just-cartels-at-the-border/2019/03/15/d40010d6-46a9-11e9-8aab-95b8d80a1e4f_story.html


End file.
